Surprises Aren't for Everyone
by Erzsebeth Bathory
Summary: Sean MacGuire never did like getting surprised.


**Author's note:** I was inspired to write a story based on Sean's scene in RDR2 Online where he tells the main character about how he hated being surprised.

* * *

The whiskey bottle went sailing across the air and Sean MacGuire ducked at the last second. His hat was knocked off his head and the bottle shattered against the wall behind him.

"What a waste of liquor!" Sean shouted, but then an impish smile formed on his lips, and he laughed. The entire atmosphere of the bar erupted into a frenzy. Just about every man inside was throwing fists and slamming bodies into tables, down the stairs, or through windows.

Sean came out of the womb swinging—at least that was what his father always told him. During his childhood, he loved getting into fights. It allowed him to unleash whatever pent-up emotions he had bottled up. Living life as an outlaw's son meant learning how to protect himself early on. When other kids found out his father was thee Darragh MacGuire, they wanted to see for themselves if Sean was just as tough, if not tougher.

He won plenty of scraps before escaping to America with his father, but it was only through absolute persistence of not backing down, and his ability to run his mouth at the same time. If he couldn't wear down his opponent with fists alone, he could easily annoy them to the point where they got frustrated with him and allowed their anger to cloud their judgement. One slip-up was all Sean needed to gain the upper hand and win. Before he was even halfway across the ocean, he had a mob overcrowding the pier with pitchforks hoisted in the air and guns firing at the boat he rode in.

Okay, maybe that last part about the guns was an exaggeration, but he vividly recalled how many people he got riled up before leaving Ireland for the first and last time. Every single person he fought with as a kid had good reason to be beaten down. After the death of his father and growing up as an orphan in the States, he continued his love for mayhem. He eventually graduated into shootouts, robberies, arson, and vandalism—all of which intensified once he was recruited by Dutch van der Linde.

Sean's knuckles ached. He wanted to throw himself into a fight and start beating someone down. If he could break someone's teeth in the process, all the better! He loved living life fast and escaping to brag about his accomplishments back at camp.

Common sense was finally able to grab him and drag him out of his fantasies, where he was promptly reminded of what he needed to do.

Money. Dutch always wanted his gang members to acquire it. It didn't matter how they went about it, so long as none of their actions were traced back to him.

With chaos all around, Sean snuck his way behind the counter, but not before grabbing his hat. It didn't matter that it was drenched in booze, but it'd belonged to his father and it was a piece of him he would always have. He could never stand to lose it.

"'ere, we go," Sean said gleefully as he remained crouched on the floor and positioned himself just beneath the register. He reached up and blindly pressed whatever buttons he could touch in order to open the drawer. After some frustrating moments, he scowled as he pulled himself up to his feet.

"Right then," he said to himself as he found the right button to press. Before he could open it, however, he happened to glance up and see a man being flung at him.

"SHITE ON A STICK!" Sean yelped before he threw himself to the ground. Just as his stomach pressed against the floorboard, glass exploded above him. The man's body collided into the back mirror and the bottles behind the bar. Sean managed to roll over and press himself against the bar just as the man collapsed next to him. Fragments of glass rained on the fellow as booze spilled from the broken bottles.

"Wasteful, wasteful!" Sean complained over the loss of the liquor, but he got to his feet and resumed his work. One press of a button later, the till popped open, and he grabbed all the bills, where he promptly stuffed them into his pockets. In the back of his head, he could hear Arthur berating him for not carrying a satchel like he did. It would allow him to carry more items. Sean always argued that he didn't want to carry anything more than he absolutely needed. His weapons and the clothes he wore were all that he needed, because anything else would slow him down. Why waste time being bogged down? As luck would have it, he emptied out the register and his pockets were filled to capacity. Done and done, and NO SATCHEL NEEDED.

"This deserves an award for me hard work," Sean decided as he searched for the nearest bottle that wasn't broken. A gunshot rang out and it destroyed the bottle that he was inches from taking.

"On second thought, never mind!" The Irishman snickered as he escaped from behind the bar and made a beeline to the closest exit.

The night air was cool and crisp compared to the overly stuffy and disordered atmosphere of the indoors. As Sean staggered outside with his loot, another shot was fired. This one struck him across the top of his shoulder. The scorching pain zipped up and down his left arm, causing his fingers to temporarily go numb.

Sean HATED being surprised. As a kid, he got jumped by other children who wanted to fight him when he was least expecting it. Even as an adult, he loathed being caught off guard, because it was a reminder that one wrong move could cripple him, or even kill him.

With one working hand, Sean drew his revolver from its holster. He spun around, cocked it, and fired it.

Too late did he see the gunman who originally shot him, as he had flung himself to the side. The bullet clearly missed him, but instead lodged itself through the tender neck of one of the working girls. Blood spewed from her fatal wound and her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

"Fuck!" Sean hissed as he realized his mistake. His stomach twisted into painful knots, and he wanted to throw up. If he wasn't already pale skinned, his flesh would have turned as white as a sheet's.

The gunman wasn't fazed by the innocent woman's death. Instead, he got to his knees and fired another shot. This time, Sean did see him, and he was ready. Even with the sickening sensation that nearly brought the acidic taste of bile to the back of his throat, the young thief was able to land four bullets into the other man's face. The gunman didn't even have a chance to pull his own trigger again before his corpse hit the dirt.

Sean lowered his arm and stared in mute horror at the now dead woman sprawled under the doorway. His jaw clenched and his hands sweated. God, he didn't mean to shoot her. Had he'd known she was behind the bastard that did shoot him, he would've reacted differently.

Dozens of hooves along with authoritative voices were heard outside the bar. The sheriff's posse finally arrived to bring order. It was time for Sean to leave.

"I'm… I'm sorry…!" he uttered to the dead woman before he spun on his heels and disappeared into the night.

* * *

Sean placed his share of the robbery into the camp's donation box. He tried to rotate his arm but the bandages wrapped over his sore shoulder reminded him of his limitations. The wound was superficial but it could've been worse.

"Why the long face, Mr. MacGuire?" Dutch asked as he emerged from his tent with a lit cigar in hand. "You did a fine job! A day or two's rest and you'll be back out there scheming and getting yourself into more adventures."

Sean sighed and slowly nodded. "Yeah, I… I will, but…"

Dutch already knew what happened. He heard about it while Susan Grimshaw tended to Sean's wound as soon as he returned from town.

"Listen, son. You did nothing wrong."

Sean's breathing hitched. Dutch sounded so damn sure of his own words.

"That woman died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The Irishman glanced down at the grass he stood upon. "I guess so."

"She had plenty of time to escape that madness, but instead, she chose to stay. Therefore, her death was her own fault. NOT. YOURS."

It still didn't feel right to him, killing someone (even accidentally) who wasn't an immediate threat to him—it was nauseating. Ultimately, he couldn't let Dutch down. When the boss complimented him on a job well done, it only solidified his reasons to keep doing what he had to do for this gang.

In the future, he would be more mindful of whom he shot at…

… but he would always hate getting surprised.


End file.
